Only With Your Love (10 page)

“You’re a distracting wench,” he observed, idly flicking the brim of her hat with his finger. “Dressed like a woman, you’d be a sight to behold…all perfumed and powdered, dressed in silk and ribbons. I’d like to see that.”

There was a faintly teasing note in his voice that struck a chord of recognition in her. Bewildered, she continued to stare at him, wiping the sweat from her palms on the sleeves of her shirt. “I have just realized something, Captain Griffin,” she said. She concentrated on his bearded face. “Not only are your eyes the same color as Philippe’s, but your brows are the same shape. One is naturally arched a little higher than the other.”

He was silent, watching her closely.

Celia shook her head, suspicions burgeoning in her mind. She could not ignore the fact that there were similarities, albeit superficial ones, between Griffin and Philippe. Was that purely coincidental? Could it be? If what she was thinking was true, then she was the greatest fool and he was the most heartless scoundrel that had ever lived. “You have admitted that you are acquainted with the Vallerands,” she continued slowly. “Perhaps it is more than just an acquaintance…Perhaps it is some sort of…kinship?”

Still he did not reply. But those unfathomable blue eyes continued to rest on hers, and she felt her knees weaken. Had she not been so confused and frightened during the last two days, she might have guessed before now. “S-somehow you are related to Philippe,” she whispered,
swaying unsteadily. Immediately his arm was there to support her, and she accepted its strength without thought. “You are helping me because I am Philippe’s widow, and you…are a Vallerand.”

W
hen Celia had found her balance, Griffin let go of her and spoke very quietly. “I’m helping you at the risk of my own life. If you make any kind of a scene, or try to alert anyone between now and the time we reach the plantation, I’ll have to kill you for the sake of my family and my own neck. Understand?”

She could not help but believe his threat. She had seen for herself that he was a ruthless cutthroat. Her fear of him, however, was outweighed by indignation and a sense of terrible injustice. “You must have known Philippe,” she accused. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to blurt it out to the men on the island, or the relay crew.”

“How could you have done what you did to me last night—especially if you
knew
Philippe?” she whispered angrily. “Are you a Vallerand? Or of some related family? Are you one of Philippe’s cousins?
Mon Dieu,
why did you take me last night if—”

“Because I wanted you. Now keep still.”

A temper she did not even know she had flared out of control. “I will not,” she said, her voice rising. The two men working the oars glanced at
her. “I will not be silent! I asked you a question, and I have the right to an answer! How can you have been so vile as to—”

She was cut off with astonishing quickness as his hand clamped over her mouth with a pressure so firm that she could not open her jaw enough to bite him. Eyes wide, face mottled with rage, she clawed at his hand as he snapped an order at one of the men. A sweat-stained kerchief was brought over, and Celia managed a half-scream before a wad of cloth was shoved in her mouth and Griffin tied a length of foul-tasting cotton over it. She struggled furiously as her hands were bound behind her with the cord from Griffin’s hair. He turned her to face him, shaking her slightly. His long sable locks fell over his face and shoulders.

“I should have done this two days ago,” he growled. “Now stop wiggling or you’ll fall overboard. And if you do, I won’t go in after you.” Despite the harshness of his words, his grip on her arms was gentle as he pulled her to a wooden crate. “Sit down,” he said. She stiffened her legs and stared at him challengingly. His eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t trouble me in the least to force you.”

Slowly she eased down, her eyes fastened on the horizon, her chest burning with hatred. After experimenting with a few twists of her wrists, she realized Griffin had left no possibility of her untying the cord by herself. Oh, it had been wise of him to silence her! The way she felt right now, she would have no hesitation in shouting his identity at the top of her lungs. She wished there was some way she could have him sent to the Cabildo, the filthy Louisiana prison Philippe had described to her with such horror after he had
attended some sick inmates there. She wished she could see Griffin hanging from the end of a rope! Was he a Vallerand? Justin Vallerand…Feverishly she racked her brain. Philippe had told her the name of his father Maximilien, stepmother Lysette, cousins, and half-sisters. The name Justin was not in the least familiar.

The flatboat reached the bank, drifting into a tiny cove framed by a dense growth of trees. “Good work,” she heard Griffin’s voice rumble softly, and he paid the men for their passage across the water. He picked Celia up as easily as if she were a doll, stepped from the craft, and ventured into the copse. Celia tensed in his arms, her velvet-brown eyes widening as she saw what they were heading into. This swamp was darker and more oppressive than the one they had traveled through before. Limbs of immense oak trees blotted out every trace of sky, while vines and gray moss streamers choked off all but a few shafts of sunlight. Everything was dank and ominously still, permeated with a moist rotting smell. Heaven knew what kinds of creatures seethed underneath the stagnant water. The swamp was a living being…she felt as if they were entering the mouth of a monster and traveling down to its belly.

Two small wooden boats equipped with oars were tethered to the arched root of a half-submerged tree. Carefully Griffin stood Celia on a bit of firm ground. “Don’t move,” he said. “I don’t want you stepping on a snake or landing yourself in a sinkhole. I’m going to see which pirogue is in better condition.”

Don’t move? Celia couldn’t even blink. She watched as Griffin poked around the tiny vessels. It was the middle of the day, yet the swamp was
a tunnel of murky gloom. If they became lost, no one would ever find them. They had no provisions. How could Griffin possibly find his way through this endless maze of trees, water, and slime? She would almost rather take her chances back on Isle au Corneille than face this.

Griffin came back to retrieve her, sliding his arm around her narrow waist. He frowned as he felt the tremors running through her body. “I feel compelled to point out,” he said casually, “that if you had agreed to become my mistress, you never would have had to set foot in a swamp again.” When she gave no sign that she had heard him, he continued talking in that same light manner. “There’s no danger here. I roved through this territory often when I was a boy.” He paused, considering her hate-filled eyes thoughtfully. “I can’t risk untying you. There’s a chance we may pass someone on the bayou. With the price on my head, I have to keep you quiet.”

He lowered her into the pirogue, settled in the seat facing hers, and used one of the oars to push them away from the sodden bank. “Sit still,” he said, twisting to see what was behind them.

She huddled as low as possible, her nerves twitching. Gigantic frogs hopped away at their approach. A water moccasin moved sinuously through the water. She kept her eyes on the interior of the boat, stifling a distressed moan. Griffin rowed rhythmically and tirelessly, only slowing their pace when it was necessary to maneuver the boat past rushes and fallen logs. There were times when the water was only a foot deep, the soft mud underneath pulling at the oar.

As Griffin worked steadily, the muscles of his great arms flexed, and the flat surface of his stomach tensed. Occasionally mosquitoes and other
tiny predators descended on his gleaming brown skin, but he seemed not to notice them. Celia’s gaze was unwillingly drawn to him. He would frighten anyone with that savage body and wild beard and hair. Ironically she recalled the fairy tales she had pored over as a little girl, of princes and chivalrous knights rescuing young maidens from beastly ogres. Although Griffin had rescued her, he resembled an ogre, not a prince.

Closing her eyes, she thought with melancholy of Philippe’s face, handsome and utterly masculine. His mouth had been pleasingly wide and expressive, one moment serious, the next curved with a teasing smile. His jaw, so strong and cleanly cut, his nose straight and perfect. She could almost feel his short, shiny dark hair sliding through her fingers, and the brush of his shaven cheek against hers. She could almost hear him whisper tenderly that he loved her. What a fool she had been not to have made love with Philippe. Now what should have belonged only to her husband had been taken by a brutal stranger who had no respect for her innocence or what it had meant to her.

Griffin seemed to catch sight of something in the distance. Celia followed his gaze and saw a flicker of movement in the quiet green bayou. Griffin turned back to her, his expression cold. “A flatboat coming this way,” he said. “Keep your head down. And don’t make a sound.”

She met his gaze defiantly. She could make trouble for him, if only by causing enough of a disturbance that the passersby might decide to investigate. If they saw that she was bound and gagged, they might intervene. Surely they would be glad to collect a bounty for a notorious pirate captain.

“You little fool,” Griffin muttered. “They wouldn’t help you. And once they realized you’re a woman…put your damn head down.”

Slowly she obeyed, allowing the hat to shield her face from the view of others.

Griffin continued to row while the other boat passed them at a distance of close to thirty feet. There were two men aboard, obviously smugglers, operating a flatboat that was little more than a glorified raft. A coarse blanket covered a low stack of boxes. The men appeared to be unaware of Griffin, but he knew that was not the case. They were Kaintocks from up the river, rough backwoodsmen who transported both legal and contraband goods between New Orleans and Louisville. Although Kaintocks were usually uneducated, Griffin knew of no better riflemen. They had to be superb shots in order to protect themselves from bands of cunning river pirates who would rob and slaughter them without mercy.

Celia did not look up when she heard one of the smugglers send a greeting across the water. The language he used sounded vaguely like English, but it had a mangled, nasal quality that distorted the words beyond her comprehension. Griffin replied in a like manner, his voice emotionless. Nothing else was said, and each vessel continued on its way. Finally Celia dared to lift her head and breathe in relief.

Griffin was watching her keenly, his eyes like sapphires. “It won’t be long,” he said.

Not long…and the waking nightmare of the past days would come to an end. Celia wished her hands were free so she could rub her aching forehead. It was only now that she dared to allow herself to believe she would be delivered more or less safely to Philippe’s family. The thought
brought a treacherous pain to her throat. She longed to share her grief with decent, kind people who would mourn Philippe as she did. She wondered if she would ever feel secure again, if she would be able to find a quiet life that would afford her a measure of peace.

She watched Griffin, who devoted his full concentration to rowing. Her blond brows knitted together. If he
were
related to the Vallerands, she thought, it could not be closely. They were a wealthy family, and they would have provided one of their own with a fine upbringing and an education that would steer him toward some gentlemanly occupation. He was an intelligent man—he certainly would not have become a filthy brigand had there been another choice for him.

The warmth of sunlight heated the back of her shirt. Surprised, Celia looked up and saw that the dense overhang of trees had thinned out. The water had deepened into a channel with distinct banks, while the lush vegetation and debris of the swamp had obviously been cleared by human hands. The pirogue moved along the east bank of the bayou. Celia stared over the fringe of wild grasses and between the cypress and willow trees. Then her gaze was riveted on the outline of a cluster of buildings that could only be a plantation.

Griffin seemed to understand the wild curiosity behind her silence. “Five plantations front this stretch of the bayou,” he murmured, pulling on the oars between words. “This is Bonheur. The next will be Garonnes. After that the Vallerands.”

Her eyes stung, and despite her best efforts she felt herself begin to tremble. Griffin rowed more slowly now, his movements less fluid than before.
There was a distant look in his eyes. The air around them was hot and oddly luminous, and Celia breathed deeply through her nose, feeling as if she would suffocate.

Griffin guided the pirogue to the bank and tied it to the root of a weathered oak. He took a moment to look up a steep incline toward the main house of the Vallerand plantation. “Five years,” he said under his breath. The structure had changed not a whit. Cool and gracious, it was poised serenely against a backdrop of cypress trees and the blue Louisiana sky. The white stuccoed house was elegant in its simplicity, two stories high and ornamented with deep covered galleries and slender columns. The scent of the earth beneath his feet and the hints of poplar and magnolia in the air brought back the past as nothing else could have. Five years…

Boys’ voices echoed in the woods.

Justin,
attends!
Wait for me!

Let’s go downstream, Philippe, and look for pirates.

Don’t let Father find out
…

Quickly Griffin glanced around, then relaxed as he realized the voices were remnants of longburied memories. He lifted Celia out of the pirogue and steadied her against a tree. Carefully he removed her hat and smoothed her sweat-soaked hair. Her body was shaking with nervous tension.

“You’re safe now,” he said, untying the gag and fishing the wad of sodden cloth from her mouth. She made an incoherent sound and touched her tongue to her dry lips. His fingers moved to her wrists. “No reason to be afraid. They’ll take care of you.” He unwrapped the cord that bound her and used it to tie back his hair.

“Who are you?” she asked unsteadily.

“Not before I get you to the house.” He looked up at the brilliant sky. “Broad daylight,” he said, pulling her with him up the slope. “I must be insane.”

Celia looked down in surprise as her thin fingers were engulfed in his large hand. It was the first time he had ever taken her hand in his.

They approached the back of the plantation house, pausing in the shadow of a grove of cypresses. Herbs growing in the kitchen garden spread a pungent scent through the warm air. Celia’s gaze wandered from the tiny chapel building and the storehouses on the right to the orange trees and flowering bushes that marked the edge of an immaculate green lawn. She knew from Philippe’s descriptions of the plantation that this was only a corner of the property. Farther on there would be more gardens, greenhouse, hen coop, mill and bell tower, bachelor house, overseer’s house and stable, and slave cabins bordering extensive fields.

Wondering why Griffin had stopped, she took a step forward, only to be hauled back again. She followed his gaze and saw a dark-skinned boy carrying a pair of buckets toward the smokehouse. Although she had tried to prepare herself for this aspect of plantation life, the sight still startled her. What did Griffin think of this enslavement of others, when his friend and cohort Aug was a Negro?

Griffin glanced down at her, reading her thoughts. “Nearly half my crew are either former slaves or Negroes from Haiti,” he said gruffly. “There are things I never questioned when I was a boy. Now I know one man was never meant to own another.”

Careful to keep them from being observed, Griffin
urged her toward the kitchen, which was attached to the house by a long porch. They passed the smokehouse, from which emanated the smell of smoking pork. Celia swallowed convulsively, her mouth suddenly drenched with saliva. A lazy orange cat reclined in the shade of the house, its tail flicking as it watched them approach.